


Rory Hawkins

by hexedHellSeer



Category: Original Work
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Father/Son Incest, Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Incest, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia, Parent/Child Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 00:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18304346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexedHellSeer/pseuds/hexedHellSeer
Summary: Rory Hawkins. A star student with the world seemingly in his reach. A charismatic fourteen year old boy with the charm of a prince and a golden heart. By all means, he striked many as perfect, and it was almost undeniably the case. His family, friends and teachers all adored him, praising him for each new achievement he effortlessly floated to. All that dissipated one weekend however, the world thrust forever out of his reach.





	Rory Hawkins

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for heavy themes of rape, incest and necrophilia.
> 
> \- this is a first attempt at a story, nothing spectacular, though i hope i can develop my skills in the future.
> 
> \- my goal is to get my writing recognised, no matter the severity of the topics covered in my works.
> 
> https://fosufofiraito.tumblr.com/post/183872388688/hey-my-boyfriend-is-a-really-good-writer-and-he
> 
> (rory)

Rory Hawkins. A star student with the world seemingly in his reach. A charismatic fourteen year old boy with the charm of a prince and a golden heart. By all means, he striked many as perfect, and it was almost undeniably the case. His family, friends and teachers all adored him, praising him for each new achievement he effortlessly floated to. All that dissipated one weekend however, the world thrust forever out of his reach.

Rory's mother had died in childbirth. There was no preemptive warning - the death was sudden and Rory's survival was a miracle. Despite having taken away his very lifeline, Rory's father could not bring himself to blame the child he cradled in his arms. From the moment of birth, Rory bared a striking resemblance to his mother, a resemblance that stayed with him in every growing year, as if her spirit lived on inside him. The bond Rory and his father had was unbreakable. Rory loved his father, his father loved him. Never would anything tear them apart. God, was he proud of his son. His precious child.

 

Rory had arrived home from school on a Friday afternoon, at four o'clock precisely. He shrugged off his backpack and hooked it on the peg in the corridor, followed by his coat. As he walked through the hallway into the living room, he smiled and waved to his father, who was watching a football game on the television. His father nodded in response. He gestured to the seat beside him on the couch, Rory's usual place. The gesture was met with compliance as Rory sat himself down next to his father, who asked about his day at school and what not.

This day's dinner was like any other meal his father made for him, which he always ate in silent gratitude for his father. They seldom spoke during dinner, too busy with their food to fully acknowledge one another. Once dinner had been concluded, Rory washed the dishes and placed them back in the cupboard. 

“Rory, come up here for a second.” Rory's father requested from his bedroom. Rory, who had been sat on the sofa in the living room, got up and made his way upstairs. His father stood in the center of the room, smiling as Rory entered.  
“You're such a great kid, Rory. y’know?”  
“Ahah, thanks Dad. You're a pretty cool dad too!”  
“You know I am, Ror’!” His father grinned, gripping his son's shoulder as he wrapped his arm around him.  
“So, uhh- why'd you need me to come up here?”  
“Eh, I was in here and I wanted to tell you that you're just a really good son.”

Rory's devotion to his father was... Immeasurable. He loved his father more than anything. Even as he was embraced from behind, the warmth of his father's body pressing up against his back, he didn't feel at all unnerved. The slightest idea of confusion only came to him when he felt his belt become undone, and slink out of his belt loops like a snake, hitting the ground with the slap of leather and the clink of the metal buckle as it was discarded on the carpeted floor. Not a word.

His father's cold, calloused hand pushed beneath the waistband of Rory's boxers, taking hold of his penis. He didn't want to object...He didn't want to annoy his father, he knew best after all...But it felt wrong. Like it was taboo or something.  
“Dad…” Rory mumbled, his voice nothing but a panicked whisper. No reply came from his father, his hand only sunk deeper into Rory's pants, his thumb pressing against the head of his penis. This action alone caused him to push back into his father's own body, his ass pressed up against his father's groin. 

He felt...filthy. Filthy as his jeans and boxers were pulled down, his hard cock, already dripping with pre-cum, stood to attention. His cheeks were red, every nerve in his body was tingling with perverse arousal. He was pleading with his father to stop, but earned no response. He soon felt the hand from the front of his underwear. It wasn't for good, though. Instead, the hand slipped down the back of his pants, swiping along his innocent, untouched asshole. He was frozen stiff, too shocked, too frightened, too caught off guard to do anything. So when he was carried to the bed, he did nothing to stop it. He was put down rather unceremoniously, splayed out for all eyes to see. All he could move were his eyes, glassy eyes that watched his father switch off the light and shut the curtains, eyes that watched the dimly lit figure of his father standing in front of him, watching him. The atmosphere in the room was stifling.

Rory watched on in anticipation, his eyes fixated on the motion of his father's hand. He watched with sleepy entranced eyes.  
“You'll forgive me, won't you, son? Daddy loves you with all his heart…” Rory hummed a quiet agreement, caught like a deer in the headlights.

The world was distorted, a muddle of shapes and noises as Rory lay still on the bed. His father's hands soon gripped his ankles, spreading his legs, further displaying his innocence. Rory was caught by surprise as he felt something press up against his untouched asshole: his father's index finger. It was cold, wet. It slipped inside. Rory gasped and held his breath. What was this feeling? It was completely foreign. It was a hissing, aching pain. His toes curled at the sensation, and he busied his clenched hands with the duvet, taking two clumps of linen and squeezing them tightly between his fists.

Rory's father pushed his finger in to the knuckle, then withdrew it to his fingertip, all in a repetitive constant motion. Soon enough, another finger. It pushed in and withdrew at the same gruelling speed. This time, it hurt Rory for real. As the two fingers separated inside him, he yelped in a sudden pain. It already felt as if he was going to tear apart. Another finger. At this point, he could take no more, letting out a cry of,  
“Nn- Stop it! Please!” as tears began to form in his eyes like beads of anguish. Nothing stopped in that moment, and instead it almost seemed as if his pleading made the situation worse. As all three fingers retracted, Rory couldn't help but sigh in relief, finally exhaling a long awaited full breath.

But the worst was yet to come.

“Close your eyes. Count back from ten.” Rory's father instructed. His voice rather quiet, but incredibly intense. Rory followed orders. No matter the context, he wasn't about to disobey his father. Ten. He heard the zipper off his father's jeans unzip. Nine. Jeans dropping to his ankles in a heap of denim. Eight. The sound of an elastic waistband “pinging” against skin before his underwear was dragged down his father's legs, following the jeans. Seven. The thud of feet on the carpeted floor as his father stepped out of his jeans and tossed them aside. Six. Warm hands dragging Rory by the legs to the foot of the bed, spreading them once more. Five. The heat of his father's body in front of him. Four. Something hot, large, indescribable in shape...Pressed against his asshole. Three. A whispered “I love you.” in his ear. Two. A sudden burning sensation, ripping into him. One. His father's cock, forcing itself inside his fragile body. Zero. 

On zero, Rory's eyes opened like butterfly wings, hot tears leaking from them with shameless liberty. It was almost as if he was being branded with the searing reality of his fear. Blood vessels ripped as his asshole was stretched by his father's cock, burying itself further and further inside him to the hilt. The pain was true agony to him; nothing had ever struck so deep, not emotionally and not physically. It was throbbing inside him, his walls contracting around it in the midst of his pain, generating a shared gasp between the two.

Eventually he managed to relax himself, and he lay mostly still, his chest rising and falling in a panicked frenzy. Rory's father seized the opportunity, beginning to move, pulling out to the head, pushing back in ever so slowly. Rory began to cry out, the sudden movement too much to bare. The feeling was akin to if the lower half of his body was being twisted and pulled, pain licking at his body like the flames of a fire. He wanted his father inside him all the way. Pushing in and pulling back out was near agony for him. The concept of tranquility had long since dissipated from his mind, and all that was left was Rory's melodious voice playing out a symphony of pain among the occasional noises from his father's mouth, a harmonious duet of such perverse crime. 

The deep aching pain surged within Rory's body, shaking him to the core in a violent mannerism. Though he kept his eyes fixated on the ceiling, his vision was hopelessly obscured by rising tears, blurring the scene that rocked back and forth as he was dragged into his father's thrusts. Half of his body was exposed, his t-shirt having ridden up his body, the fabric now chafing slightly against his skin. The hot friction against the bed sheets and his body pricked at him, causing him to arch his back, creating a contorted spectacle of himself writhing on the bed.

Further and further his conscious thoughts ran thin, tight threads ensnared on turmoil, spiralling and crossing over one another and etching a sick spider web, entangling him in despair. He felt so trapped yet… Completely liberated in his stupor. Dark tendrils of pain wrapped around his body, pricking at the surface of his skin, poisoning him with its delirious lust. The feeling was almost euphoric, yet the pain burned through him in a way he couldn't explain. Deeper than physical pain, far worse.

He was soon pulled from his thoughts by his father's movements, turning from repetitive and evenly paced to a seemingly rushed motion, faster, deeper inside him, more forceful than before. No warning came before he felt his asshole fill with a white warmth, flowing deep into his body. With a shudder and a hushed groan, Rory's father pulled his cock from his son's stretched opening. Pulling out was an unfavourable gesture, generating a long whine from Rory like the rusted hinges of a door, making him shift uncomfortably.

All Rory could think to do was to cry out in desperation, unable to withstand the emptiness suddenly present inside him. He wanted more; he wanted it thrust back in, he wanted that awful pain to return and fill him with orgasmic despair. But it was over now, and the seconds that followed were silent. Rory's half shut eyes looked to the ceiling, counting the ripples of the artex pattern, refusing to watch his father as he cleaned himself off.  
“Stand up.” Came his father’s voice. And Rory obeyed. He dragged himself off the bed, wobbling on his feet as he stood. As he straightened his body up, he felt lukewarm cum leak out from inside of him, cascading down his thighs and leaving an unsightly white mark on the carpet, absorbing into the beige nylon. Rory’s face reddened with shame, feeling dignity fade into the burning scarlet. How sickening it all was.

Rory felt as if his beating heart was sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach, the thrum of his pulse in his ears drowning out the sound of his own uneasy breathing. He saw nothing but blurred shapes through half closed eyes, weeping tears. 

Before he could speak again, he was embraced against his father's warm body, held in place by strong arms wrapped around him.  
“Love you, Rory.” His father spoke with a strange confidence. It was harder for Rory. The words came out in a shaky, broken voice, wavering and uncertain.  
“I-... I love you...too, Dad.” No matter what, his father would always be his hero.

Rory's body felt heavy, barely able to hold himself up on shaky legs. He helplessly stumbled and swayed as his father guided him through the corridor into the bathroom. The world seemed far out of reach, sounds and touch brushing past like ghosts, wispy translucent tendrils that glided over his flushed cheeks with an icy chill. Noise failed to reach him clearly, drowned out by the deafening nature of his conscience. Words were wasted on deaf ears and a deaf mind.

The bath was full by the time Rory came to. His father pulled the plain white t-shirt over Rory's head and tossed it aside. He lifted him as if he were more of a featherweight ragdoll than a person, lowering him into the tub. The hot water enveloped him, wrapping his fatigued body in a ribbon of steamy warmth. With an empty beaker at the side of the bath, Rory's father scooped up some of the water and tipped it over Rory's head with caution, shielding dazzling hazel eyes with a hand. Tepid water rained down on his back and cascaded over his thin shoulders, drenching him in wet heat.

As his father washed him in the bath, Rory could feel the water begin to lose its heat, and once it was time to get out the water was less than lukewarm. Before he could stand for too long in the cool air, his father wrapped him in a pale grey towel, drying it off until thick near-black hair spread out in a derangement of curls. It had been years since someone had bathed him, but it wasn't all that bad; even now.

They carried on with the evening as if the perverse action had never taken place. On the sofa in the living room, watching television. Rory's mind refused to focus, drifting away with tired thoughts twirling inside his head. The TV switched to commercials and Rory stood, announcing with a great amount of fatigue,  
“I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Dad.” He got no further than three steps before his father replied,  
“Actually, I'd like you to sleep in my bed tonight, with me.” That hadn't been a request, it was without a doubt an order. With no emotion distinctly cast on his face, Rory nodded. His father switched the television off and turned off the table lamp that was scarcely illuminating the living room. Rory followed his father up the staircase into the bedroom.

Rory hadn't slept in his father's bed since he was five, when he saw an ambiguous shadow on the wall, when a lightning strike peered its blinding white eyes into the room or when a bare winter branch scraped against the window pane. He had been in pyjamas since he had gotten out from the bath, and slipped under the covers without getting undressed. Once they were both in bed, the lamp on the bedside table switched off with a click and darkness filled the room. The only light that filtered into the room was the silver moonlight, casting a hollow square of light around the drawn curtains at the window. As his father fell asleep beside him, Rory lay awake, staring up at the ceiling almost as if he was waiting for the pattern to change. His eyelids grew heavy over his eyes, drawing shut as sleep claimed him. The silver moonlight faded and the soft, rhythmic sounds of their breath drifted away slowly.

The alarm clock on the bedside read 8:40AM. It was Saturday morning and the cold light of the wintry sun filtered in through the now undrawn curtains. Rory's father wasn't in bed. Rory rubbed sleep's remains from his eyes and rose from the bed, stumbling through the hallway to his own bedroom. He assembled his outfit and, after using the bathroom, went downstairs into the kitchen. His father was at the table already, reading a book in the peace of the morning. Finders Keepers by Stephen King. Breakfast was held in a mutual silence, as it was most days. Rory washed up his bowl and spoon in the sink and put them to the side to dry.

The day cycled on like any other, ignorant of the previous day's activities, until the evening began. Rory came from upstairs in his bedroom, having just finished rehearsing a song on his guitar. He had taken his usual seat in the living room, but today he had found himself subconsciously moving closer to his father, at his side and soon upon his lap with some assistance. The desire lingered in his mind, his heartbeat quickening at the mere thought.  
“Can you... do it again?” Rory asked, his sweet voice a quiet coo in his father's ear.  
“Do what again, Ror’?” His father answered, a look of feigned confusion on his face.  
“... Dad… You know…” The sweet confidence in Rory's voice faltered at the apparent obliviousness to what he needed. There was a knowing grin on his father's face, which Rory looked upon and sighed,  
“C'mon Dad…” By now, both of their faces were painted with smiles, looking eye to eye with a strange kind of lust for one another.

It wasn't long before Rory was bent right over the arm of the sofa, his legs spread and his face buried in his arms as his body shook with his father's movements. Ecstasy filled his shaky body, brimming with the euphoric sensation, overflowing in the form of sweet, shameless moans. This feeling was different to yesterday. There was a warmth shared between them that hadn't been present the day before, a lack of fear in Rory's meek coos and long forgotten guilt on his father's part. Rory's cheeks were flushed scarlet, painting his face like watercolour roses.

Moving was becoming easier and easier for his father as Rory further relaxed, warmth inside them both as the sensation of an arising orgasm began to build for the both of them. Rory grabbed for himself, taking his own penis in his left hand and letting his shaft slip between his fingers and thumb as he started touching himself. Neither of them took long to climax in that moment, almost in exact unison. Rory shrieked as he felt cum fill his cavity, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as the catalyst began, his own cock twitching as cum spat from it, hot and viscous.

It had soaked into the arm of the sofa, leaving a faded white stain among the dozens of other various marks. At least they had Febreez'd it. They cleaned up their mess and got back on with their evening, just as usual. Rory didn't have to be asked this time: he climbed into his father's bed alongside him, and they fell asleep side by side.

 

It was Sunday. When Rory awoke, the darkness of the early morning enveloped him. He turned his head to the alarm clock on the bedside table. The glowing green digits read “04:53”. He was restless all night, unable to sleep, yet he couldn't understand why. He couldn't return himself to sleep's embrace but he was far too cold and tired to get up yet. He shut his eyes tightly, giving sleep the chance to reclaim him if it so pleased, which it did.

Rory opened his eyes again, turning to the clock to read the numbers again. 06:12. Just over an hour had passed since he had shut his eyes. The right side of the bed was still full, his father's sleeping body beside him. That was good then. He slipped out of bed and dressed himself, wandering downstairs into the kitchen. For how great his father had been, he decided he would make them both breakfast to show his gratitude.

He put the meal together in a half hour. Cooked the hash browns, fried the eggs, heated the beans and fried the bacon. He plated it and set it on the table with a knife and a fork at the side of either plate. After everything was set into place, Rory called for his father and waited. In a few minutes, his dad was coming downstairs and into the kitchen. He took his seat opposite Rory's, smiling as he looked at the breakfast in front of them.  
“I...Just wanted to make it because you're always super nice to me, and uh... I love you Dad. Thanks for always being so cool.” Rory said, looking down at the table, smiling.

They exchanged conversation as they ate, watching as the winter sun began to rise. Rory cleaned up afterwards, leaving his dad to get on with the tasks his work required of him. For the most part, Rory stayed in his room. He logged onto his console and played a game with a few friends from a neighbouring school. When it was time for dinner, he signed off and went downstairs into the kitchen.

They spoke at dinner, a somewhat rare occasion they found.  
“So, I got a promotion on Thursday, Ror’. Assistant manager. Wha'd'you think of that?” Rory's father announced, taking a pause from eating in order to speak.  
“That's awesome! That mean you can get that new coffee maker you wanted?”  
“Sure does.”  
“Awesome.” Rory finalised. Silence soon fell between them and they ate quietly. The only noise was the evening birds’ song and the scratching of forks against plates. When they were finished eating, Rory's father took the plates and washed them up.

Like every night after dinner, they migrated into the living room and sat down on the sofa. It was quiet bar the television's hum.  
“Rory, we're going to do it again, okay? Just for one last time. I won't do it ever again.” Rory's father insisted, hand on his son's knee.  
“Do we...Have to? It kind of-...It kind of hurts.” Rory said quietly, looking down. He didn't want to disappoint his father. His father tightened his grip on his knee.  
“You can take more than that, Rory. Remember when you broke your arm in two places playing football? You barely even cried! Thought there was somethin’ wrong with you!”  
“I know… But it-... I-... Nevermind.”  
“That’s a good boy.”

It hurt more this time. It hurt so much. It was messy. Blood and faeces dripped from Rory's hole, his father's cock refused to fit without tremendous force. His heart felt empty. The pain burnt him inside out, vile pain that made his toes curl and cramp and made his teeth clench and feel as though they would shatter. He had tried to get his father to stop, crying and begging, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. He had stopped crying eventually, stifling his own sobs with the fear of making his father angry.

He felt his stomach cramp as his father's cum filled his hole, flowing inside of him and back out when his father removed his cock from inside. Rory couldn't help but cry, a single miserable cry that he tried and failed to mask as a moan. He didn’t stop crying as his father cleaned him off, wiping off his bare legs and arse with a baby wipe, discarding the filthy cloth piece in the bin across the room.  
“Did it really hurt that much, Rory?” His father finally asked, the words he had been waiting for his father to utter for quite some time now. Rory nodded slowly, making a quiet humming noise to confirm that he was, in fact, in as much pain as his shaking and crying suggested.  
“I’m sorry, kid. Thought you could take it. I’ll make it stop, though. I promise. Okay?” Another nod followed the last.  
“I’ll be back in a second, stay here.” Rory’s father said as he went into the kitchen. He returned soon after, having washed his hands in the sink.

“I...Think I’m gonna go to bed, Dad. School tomorrow and all…” Rory said quietly as he began up the stairs with a slight limp to his step. The atmosphere was tense, suffocating Rory in its stifling presence. His father nodded,  
“I’ll come up with you, say goodnight and what not.” and walked close behind Rory.

As they stood on the landing, Rory felt his father’s embrace surrounding him. It was a warm, comforting feeling that seemed to send shivers throughout his body despite the heat of them both. The warmth was soon too hot, a violent stinging that was, for reasons unknown to Rory, spreading throughout his abdomen. There was a hand tightly clamped over his mouth before he could scream. His hazel eyes looked down at the hand over his mouth, then to the hand with white knuckles, a death grip on the black handle of a kitchen knife. He soon saw the shining silver of the blade, torn from his abdomen, then thrust back in. Blood covered the carpeted floor. As the sound of his stomach violently gushing blood filled his ears, he was acutely aware of his father whispering tearful apologies as the knife was ripped out and forced back in with rapid succession. Seventeen times. The knife had entered and exited his abdomen seventeen times in the short space of ten seconds. Within those ten seconds, Rory’s body was falling limp in his father’s arms, unable to scream, watching his own blood paint the corridor. His father watched as the light left his son’s eyes, as though the vibrancy within him was draining in that moment. Within a minute, he was left holding the dead body of his own son.

 

***

 

The sun had set long ago. It was dark outside and Nicholas Hawkins sat on his blood-soaked bed with the cadaver of his fourteen year old son, Rory, in his arms like a baby. If it wasn’t for the blood, it would appear as though the boy was just asleep, and would awaken at any moment. However, Rory was in a dream in which he could never be roused from, an eternal sleep in which his soul resided. The darling boy in which Nicholas cradled since birth was no more, and his heart was empty and broken in two.

Truth be told, sex had never been something too appealing for Nicholas. Maybe it was just that he had always been gay. Before his own son, he had never fornicated with another male, but the thought of it excited him no more than the idea of sex with a woman. In fact, it seemed to excite him less. He had only ever had sex with women, but he had never found any true interest in it. It was exciting once when he was young and in school, but after the first time, it felt old and tedious, as though it were a monotonous task in which he had to complete. It soon dawned on him that the girl in which he had first had sex with was strangely quiet, just as Rory had been the first time. Silent as death itself. The sweet silence was ecstacy.

The knife still pierced Rory’s abdominal region from the seventeenth and final blow. Nicholas pulled it from the corpse and tossed the knife aside, standing up and then positioning Rory’s corpse on the floor against the bed with his many wounds on show. He was stripped of his torn and bloodied shirt. Nicholas undid his belt and unzipped his jeans. He pulled his cock from his underwear and stroked himself, his eyes darting over the jagged wounds in his son’s mutilated body. There was an unnerving beauty to the desecrated innocence before him. Like wilting flowers, so beautiful in life, wasted upon meeting such an untimely and unsightly demise.

He slipped his cock inside of the first wound, central to his abdomen. The hole was surprisingly deep. His cock pushed against the organs that were scarcely visible through the wounds, slipping in between the layers of flesh and intestines, blood coating his penis in its ghastly vibrance. The sensation was overwhelming. The silence was more than erotic, the lukewarm temperature of his organs made his cock twitch and the sheer knowledge of what he was doing was driving him crazy. Consequently, it wasn’t long at all before he felt himself orgasm, each of his senses being violated by the sickening sensation of his son’s unmoving corpse. The cadaver seemed to overflow with semen. There was a stench so foul that lingered on, the metallic scent of blood entangled its threads within a quilt of awful smells. Vomit, fecal matter, semen and the urine where Rory had wet himself in terror all permeated the sickly sweet smell of blood, the last scent of life in the body that seemed to lose its soul by the second.

The night was awfully restless. Nicholas had no plan. He would undoubtedly be found out eventually. Blood covered everything. The evidence was overwhelming. So what the hell was the point in trying to hide it? Better to turn himself in now and avoid the stress of coming clean days, months or even years later. There was no reset button. No amount of begging to would return his sweet son to his arms. It hadn't worked when his wife had died. Nothing could be done. With shaking hands, Nicholas lifted the phone from the bedside table and entered in three numbers.

“Hello, police?”  
“...I've just killed my son.”

*** 

 

Even in death, Rory Hawkins appeared angelic. In the church he laid in a white casket, center of attention as friends and family mourned the loss of such innocence. Pink roses lay vibrant in a loose grip in cold hands. They had always been his favourite flowers. The guests shared tears of inconsolable grief as they looked upon the casket, the stillness of the once radiant boy sickening to all eyes and ears. He was buried at noon in the pouring rain, hazel eyes shut forever, buried beneath the dirt. The headstone would never go unclean, flowers forever decorated the grave. Pink roses. The headstone read;

In loving memory of Rory Hawkins.  
19/06/2004 - 16/12/2018.

When someone you love becomes a memory,  
That memory becomes a treasure.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for taking the time to read this work. it took me approximately three and a half months to complete. in the future, i hope to post similar content, though this may be irregular and unscheduled.
> 
> please comment and/or leave kudos.


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